I was writing this poem
In your arms.

Six feet beneath you;
You look like a god to me.
Everyone else is on level ground.

I was writing this poem
In the arms of your brother.

It seems as though his body
Was molded especially to fit my own.
He smiled when you didn’t.

I was writing this poem
In the arms of all your friends.

There were no introductions.
I’ll forget them first.
Nice boys, sweet boys.

You close your eyes
When you cower in the corner.
This man, this man isn’t you.
Dry mouths and too much scotch;
Animals for an evening.
Dreams of Edinburgh shattered,
Depression awoken by the bitter air of Los Angeles.
Where do you belong anymore?

Dull sandpaper,
Worn away by these city lights
But you can’t stop.
Surrounded by thousands and
You’re lonely,
Just like the rest of us.
I see those quiet tears.

I was writing this poem
In your arms,
In the arms of your brother,
In the arms of all your friends.

Don’t ask me to choose
Because I won’t.